


Fake Snakeskin Boots

by charlottemadison



Series: The Longest Night [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual, Brahms - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Crowley is a bit of a disaster in this one, Crowley says Ngk, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's feet, Crowley's shoes, Dialogue Heavy, Edith Piaf - Freeform, I swear I didn't mean to write this much about feet and shoes but it's canon worth exploring is all, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Louboutin, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Shoes, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), can be read as asexual, fireside chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: Armageddn't is over, and Heaven and Hell are surely coming for them in the morning. So tonight is for stories, laughs, confessions and the best of Crowley's liquor cabinet. He only hopes he can keep the angel happy til it's all over.-----"So you chose to save me and my books, but not your dignity apparently, because you hate footwear that much?""Yeaaaap, I'm a shoe truther, me. Shoes. Are. Terrible," Crowley drawled. He grinned and flexed his outstretched feet, shifting between a few of his favorite looks before leaving them bare and a bit scaly."You can't have always faked your shoes? All of them?""Had to fake my feet for the whole sandal era anyway, humans got tetchy about it. Thousands of years of that. No bloody point tying your ankles up in cowhide when you have to miracle your toes anyhow, it's sort of two for one, so." The demon shrugged expressively.Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Crowley. Did you fake it during the Louboutin trials?""Augh! Ffffff -- 'specially during the Louboutin -- look here, angel."Vibrating with indignation, Crowley launched up off the couch to strut around the fire pit on crimson-soled Pigalles. Aziraphale felt a good rant coming on.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Longest Night [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546606
Comments: 178
Kudos: 875





	Fake Snakeskin Boots

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read alone, but it's part 4 of a series that starts with the bus ride and proceeds through the Night at Crowley's Flat nearly in real time, with tons of dialogue. It starts here: https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932
> 
> Rated T for swearing but no smut, can be read as asexual. Next installment might be E.
> 
> If you like it subscribe for the rest!

"Then why couldn't you just wear proper shoes?" sputtered Aziraphale.

"Angel!" Crowley waved so broadly with his wine that a splash flew into the fire pit with a sizzle. "What in heaven'd I do that for? Have you _tried_ shoes? They're the fffffucking worst!"

"Not 'f you find the krind -- find the _kind_ that --"

"All the shoes. Are the worst. All." The demon shook a swaying finger with each syllable at his audience of one. "Six. thousand. years. of worst. Evvvv -- err'body knows that. Deep down." He drank.

"Not the good ones!" Aziraphale protested in shouts of laughter, rocking on the stiff patio settee. "They really can feel quite, quite comfortable after --"

"Noooope, shhhhh," Crowley made fervent shushing motions, much too close to his friend's face, and the angel tried to bat them away with a flutter. "Nope nope nope nope nope, yoooooou --"

"Really Crowley, you can't expect --"

"--oooou just keep daydreaming that if you torture yourself for _months,_ somehow these, these dead skin 'n vulcanized tree -- pokey fucking ffffff _footcages!_ will miraculously transform into something pleasant, which they _nnnever_ do --"

"But the floor, the c-consecrated ground was --"

"-- when the truth is you're jusss training y'self over time to accept a very specific kind of torture because it's the familiar one, and by the by, humans' finest talent, that! Apparently principalities' too --"

"Wait! Listen you wily thing, shhhh -- shtop. Stop." The demon obediently paused for breath. And wine. "What about. What about slippers?" Aziraphale proclaimed with glowing sozzled pride.

Crowley pulled a face of disgust. "Sweaty and horrid. Portable little festering sssaunas of microbes hitchin' a free ride about the house. Livin' the high life like little -- bacteria hippies in their damp ffffluff campers --"

"Not true!" cackled the angel. "They're one of ours. Very, they're very comforting."

"Comforting for ten fucking minutes, 'at's what I'm saying, and thereafter a soggy nightmare for _hours_ that people sssomehow accept."

"What about trainers?!" Aziraphale asked in a tone that begged _do trainers next! Do trainers!_

"Angel. Shhhhhh." Crowley leaned in wide-eyed with all the secretive seriousness of inebriation, sunglasses and jacket long ago cast aside. His hand found Aziraphale's knee. "Angel angel. _Angel_. You tried my nose on already tonight, yeh. So. Imagine this times a thousand. Have. you. ever. smelled. ssssomeone else's trainers?"

That prompted a true celestial snort, which left nothing more for Crowley to say; with that they were done for. Hereditary enemies arched apart and then fell together on the couch, gasping with laughter, helplessly bowed by Côtes du Rhone and delight and the intoxicating freedom to sit side by side without fear.

Or rather, thought Crowley in a happy haze, side by side with _all_ the fear out in the open, since the worst was now an inevitability. Divine and infernal retribution drew closer hourly. They had a shot, but they both knew it was a very long one, so having practiced their parts and done all they could -- the rest was out of their hands. Perhaps all the fear had come to pay a call, found itself superfluous, and taken a dive off the tenth-floor balcony to give them a few hours' peace. Crowley hoped so.

Aziraphale was here. He was alive, he was safe, and he was happy. All three were unthinkable hours ago in a burning bookshop. The besotted demon grinned across his glass for a few moments too long, drinking in the flickering warm glow of him, the unselfconscious drunken joy of him, the scent of his body in the summer air.

The best nights of their lives had been lit up like this since before Mesopotamia: fermentation and teasing and firelight. There was always a fire, always, right up until Edison and occasionally after. How many logs thrown on, how much coal shoveled in and oil poured out between the Garden and the aborted apocalypse? All Crowley wanted, for the rest of his potentially-very-short existence, was to sit here in the glow of the flames and distract his angel. 

Said angel wiped his eyes and refilled their glasses, still giggling. He looked more lighthearted than he had since before the Thirty Years' War. Even if the worst came in the morning, tonight Crowley had _done_ it, he'd made his principality smile again. He felt buzzed like a comic killing a set or a high wire artist landing a flip. 

"Hooooo," the angel crooned as he resettled, one knee up on the seat so he could face Crowley. "You might think I brought it up out of charitable concern for your poor scalded feet. But in fact I'm trying to break it to you gently how -- how ridiculous you looked." Crowley hissed amusement into his cup. "Really, darling, you resembled nothing so much as a reluctant groom dragged down the aisle by his eyeteeth, over a bed of nails. Hardly the suave cinematic act of derring-do you were making it out to be."

"It fuckin' worked dinnit! You _looooved_ it."

"It worked a treat, and I shall forever treasure the memory of Hell's finest hopping like a drop on a skillet in front of bewildered Nazi goons." The angel looked out over London -- a stunning view by night -- toward where the little church had once been. "So you chose to save me and my books, but not your dignity apparently, because you hate footwear that much?"

Crowley dimly realized he still had a handful of angel knee and let it go. They seemed to be taking turns tonight, touching with great care, small gestures that asked one another _is this all right? Is this allowed?_ It was not unlike their years-long bouts of chess at the bookshop. When there was a bookshop.

The knee grab was Crowley's move for this round, then. He figured it escalated things in duration if not location. Since he'd forgotten to let go til now.

He sprawled back onto the couch and crossed his ankles up on the edge of the gas fire pit, sobering himself as he settled in. A retaliation was surely on the horizon and he needed to stay alert for this game. He wondered if Aziraphale had done too; he was sounding sharper.

"Yeaaaap, I'm a shoe truther, me," Crowley drawled. "Couldn't be bothered even for church. Tonight was the first time I've worn real shoes in -- pfffff hunnerd-sixty years? I try 'em again every few centuries, just to see, and they're always terrible." He grinned and flexed his feet in the flames, shifting between a few of his favorite looks before leaving them bare and a bit scaly.

"Were my shoes so torturous when we practiced? They feel comfortable enough to me." Aziraphale shimmied in place with the unsettled expression of a man overly aware of his toes. They had not been entirely his all day.

"Of course angel! Torture galore. You've just learned to ignore it. Same with the bowtie."

"My collar feels _fine_ , thank you very much. You can't have always faked your shoes? All of them?"

"Had to fake my feet for the whole sandal era anyway, humans got tetchy about it. Thousands of years of that." Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. Some villages believed Crowley when he said everyone from the home country had funny eyes and special feet. Others burned him at the stake or created bizarre rituals requiring his organs. It had been a learning experience, that first millennium. "No bloody point tying your ankles up in cowhide when you have to miracle your toes anyhow, it's sort of two for one, so." The demon shrugged expressively and let his head fall back to search out the few stars visible in London.

"The leather was significantly tougher back then, it's true," said Aziraphale. "Did you even in the snow? Fake it?"

Crowley shuddered and pushed his toes further into the blue flames. "Yup. 'Cept for on that bloody Franklin trip. Blessed _Terror_ , what'd I expect. Oh, I did use real armor from time to time, plate or chain or bamboo. But nobody ever tried to sell me on the idea it would turn soft and comfortable with age."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Crowley. Did you fake it during the Louboutin trials?"

"Augh! Ffffff -- _'specially_ during the Louboutin -- look here, angel."

Vibrating with indignation, Crowley launched up off the couch to strut around the fire on crimson-soled Pigalles. Aziraphale felt a good rant coming on, so he summoned a blanket against the night air and curled up eagerly as if he were back at the Theatre of Marcellus.

"Nobody in Hell," Crowley expounded as he paced, "has _ever_ appreciated my work in fashion and cosmetics. Which, by the by, launched consumer capitalism as we know it. Downstairs gives me instructions to tempt some bloke to look at porn here, or one kid to shoplift there -- just _make_ 'em do it as if they're sock puppets. Then, then they send me commendations for entire sodding imperialist occupations or, or every superfund site ever, or some rrrrot! Always thinking too big or too small.

"When I was busy on Louboutin, Hell sent me a commendation for inventing online harrassment, which, where have they been, and then they ordered me to go all the way to Twickenham to make a football mum lose her temper at a volunteer coach! I mean I knooooow management always gets detached, but how are they _that dense?!_ I ask you gentlemen!"

Aziraphale grinned. "I had fun doing that one. She embarrassed every child on the pitch so terribly that they all vowed to manage their tempers forever. I wrote it up as a win."

"They just -- they can never think about systems, _systems_ angel! Billions of people to tempt, an' no blessed reason to hurt them or force them if we just work on the right scale." Crowley was getting nicely wound up and punctuating his tirade with little pirouettes and poses; he was a wonder in heels and he knew it. "Take shoe stores. One-stop sin shop. Envy, avarice, wrath, pride, vanity, lust -- not to mention heaping sides of insecurity, pollution, wage theft, class warfare, gender essentialism, buyer's remorse -- auuugh! It's glorious. A masterpiece. Millions of people tempted and tested daily, yet their free will's preserved. And it looks fucking fabulous."

The angel applauded politely with an arched eyebrow. "Our Side commends you."

"Shut it, peanut gallery. Where was I. Faking it." Crowley posed elegantly on one leg and held out an index finger, _one moment,_ so he could drain his glass and set it down before relaunching. "Now I never claimed to be the brightest of infernal agents --"

"Oh but you absolutely have, my dear."

"-- and I do have some self-awareness about the fact that --"

"Since when?!"

"Oi! So I have been known from time to time to cause mischief that creates a certain degree of blowback for, for, for myself, case in point password reset protocols --"

"You, hoisted by your own petard? Never." Aziraphale wiggled just a bit, glowing.

Crowley pivoted around a planter and stalked right up to the angel, casting him in shadow. "Take that tone with me and you're going to get the whole horrifying demonstration up close," he snarled. "As I was saying, prince charming --" He stabbed his right foot up onto the back of the couch, an inch from Aziraphale's elbow, crimson sole gleaming dangerously. The angel flinched back and held his breath, mesmerized.

With a snap Crowley produced a shoe in hand identical to the pair he was wearing. He held it up for close inspection: it was a five-inch-heeled temptation in black and trademarked red, a sinful work of art. It nearly glowed with lust, greed, and corporate hubris.

"Foolish demon though I be, even _I_ know my limits when it comes to suffering through the torments we use to plague humanity. Even I know that if I imagine this thing into existence, it's a dream. But if I try to put this _real shoe_ onto my _physical foot_ \--"

"Oh no," gulped Aziraphale, hands flying to his face as he started to chuckle.

Crowley vanished his right shoe and adopted the only stance it is possible to adopt to put on a high heel standing up. While wearing another high heel. While tipsy. The demon's face contorted absurdly and his free hand flailed as he tottered on one wobbly ankle. It was the unsexiest sight imaginable.

The longer it took, the more Aziraphale's laughter rose in pitch and volume, and before long the angel fell on his back on the settee. "You've -- you've -- you've never put on a real shoe before," Aziraphale howled. "You don't even know how, you great -- flamingo!"

"I do! Iss just not -- actually made for _nnnngggf_ for wearing -- it's made for sending people -- gradually to -- Hell --" he staggered and had to hop about madly to get his balance back.

"Stop, you'll discorporate me again," the angel begged.

"Almost got it --" Crowley grunted.

Half by accident and half because he was enjoying this whole bit, Crowley fell hard on his arse on the decking. Aziraphale was in tears. It was easier to wedge the pump into place on the ground, but he couldn't get up, which set off a fresh round of thrashing.

"Ohohoho, that must be how I looked when I first tried you on," laughed Aziraphale.

"Nonsense, I'm completely in control," deadpanned the demon. He finally got up by gripping the copper bowl of the fire pit. His fingers smoked a little but didn't burn.

He staggered up clumsily to loom over the angel, grace and swagger evaporated. "See, _now_ I look like you when you wear me. Not to mention I'm in unspeakable discomfort. That's what real shoes _do_. As I said, and I rest my case: shoes. are. the. worst. Yes, angel, I was faking it for Louboutin."

"My dear fellow," said Aziraphale soberly when he'd finally recovered his breath, "I know these human things can be difficult for us to get a handle on, as occult and ethereal beings. But if I may -- you might have better luck walking if you had put that left shoe you conjured onto your left foot."

Crowley blinked and looked down.

"Well yeh I ngk -- 's a choice. Thassssssss how I like 'em. Free will."

Aziraphale covered his mouth and lost control completely, laughing so hard he made no sound. Crowley shook out his legs and restored his favorite snakeskin boots -- in which he offered Aziraphale a deep Regency-era bow, one foot forward, while flipping him the bird with both hands. The angel applauded wildly.

Crowley collapsed breathless onto the couch, an inch or two nearer than he had been before. He felt like an antic vaudevillian hopping about to keep the crowd happy, but he suspected his audience saw right through it and didn't mind so much. There was a lot to be said for friendly distraction. So much to be distracted from. And it felt like flying to be succeeding.

Their mood mellowed in the brief silence and a flower-scented breeze picked up, just enough to make the blanket and the fire attractive. Crowley ordered it to burn a little higher.

"Should we try another bottle?" asked Aziraphale.

"We might -- we oughtta keep from getting too drunk, we'll need to think fast if they show up here. But we could just go sober on 'n' off, yeah?"

"Quite right. I don't even know that I need the wine, it's just nice to have something to hold and drink. And I thought you might be saving a few you'd like us to taste before -- before all the excitement."

Whose turn was it? Crowley wondered. Could he reach out now? _Nice to have something to hold. Before all the excitement._

He spent a long while debating whether to throw his arm along the back of the couch -- he'd tried it an hour ago and got no reaction, but on the bus it had been well-received. Was it within bounds then, since there was precedent? Or should he until the angel made a move? That had been quite a long knee hold. And he'd been clowning out of range ever since. This game needed a tutorial.

"I've a couple things saved for a special occasion," said Crowley. "Or I could make you some cocoa."

"Mmm. Might be nice."

"Or -- actually one thing I've been saving would pair very well _with_ cocoa. Picked it up in Chicago just post-war, it's reeeeally something."

"Brown?"

"Kentucky bourbon. Small batch. Liked it so much I got a case, you have to try it."

He didn't mention that it was the same he'd turned to on the night he'd received a certain tartan thermos. He'd felt so lost and apprehensive back then. There was an air of symmetry to breaking it out again tonight, with the thermos emptied and the angel staying over.

"Sounds ideal," said Aziraphale. Then he leaned his head onto Crowley's left shoulder.

Ha! _My turn._

Crowley jettisoned his arm across the back of the couch before anything could be settled; his sharp shoulder would be better company this way. Sure enough, Aziraphale shifted til he found the soft spot and sank in. Crowley let his hand drape loosely around the angel's back, barely touching but present -- and resisted the urge to pump a fist in triumph.

Aziraphale countered more quickly than anticipated: he lifted his wool blanket over Crowley's outstretched legs. They were sharing. A blanket. By the fire. What was the proportionate response? Or should he wait?

Drinks, they'd been talking about drinks. He couldn't make cocoa properly from out here but he could summon the bourbon, so he did. "Ice or no?"

"Neat. Not much, a taste is fine, thank you." Crowley invited a tray and glassware out from the kitchen and poured one-handed.

"What do we drink this one to, angel?"

Aziraphale considered awhile. "To faking it," he decided.

"Useful skill," Crowley mused. "To faking it."

They clinked and drank and the angel groaned happily. "Ooooh. Mmm, this is in fact something special, my dear."

"Tol' you I was savin' it." Crowley noticed the music had stopped, must have long ago. He focused a moment and changed the record in the living room to Édith Piaf. A nice match for a drink this age. As the orchestra swelled through the plate glass, he opted to take one more turn -- a half-turn perhaps -- and reinforce the presence of his arm around Aziraphale. Not squeezing, not demanding, just -- solid. Committed. That was plenty good for now.

"So were you really gonna do it?" he asked.

"What?"

"With the tuba gun? You an' your roommate Tracy?"

".........I'm grateful enough not to know in the end whether -- whether. Well."

"Mmn."

"She stopped me. I didn't stop her stopping me." The angel sighed. "Perhaps being willing to try was just my way of proving to you that I'd come 'round to your side. Our side."

"You were always on our side. You just had loads more to lose by admitting it."

"I'm glad you know that."

"Course. Obviously." Crowley surveyed the planters all around his deck. There were a fair number of flowers budding and blooming that hadn't been in season a few hours ago. The herb pots were spilling over, he swore the dill was getting taller by millimeters as he watched.

"Ohhhh," groaned Aziraphale, "I should go clean up the mess inside." Without seeing it Crowley knew the shape of the brow crease that accompanied it.

"Which, the puddle? Mnaaah, no rush. ...Unless you want to go back inside. Do you?"

"I just hate the thought of it being there is all."

"An' I hate the smell. But I've got my priorities for tonight and that's low on the list." Crowley considered why that might have come up, imagined what the angel might be doing now if he were at home. If he'd still had a home. Puttering, alphabetizing, setting his space in order. Running fingers over worn spines to see that everything he loved was still there. _It wasn't._ "I s'pose...if at some point you want something to do, angel, a task -- let me know and we'll go take care of it. Otherwise don't take responsibility for it just because you think you have to be the responsible one."

"Well _you_ can hardly touch it."

"Don't want to. Want to be here."

Aziraphale shifted and moved his head up over Crowley's shoulder to the hollow near his collarbone. "Point conceded. The night air is lovely."

Crowley sat perfectly still, looking as serene as he knew how, while klaxons went off between his ears. If he tilted his head just a few inches he could lay his cheek against Aziraphale's hair. And Aziraphale would surely notice. Being unable to fathom a decision more crucial than this, he devoted all resources to it, not with arguments or strategy but with vague howling impulses on all sides.

Ugh, this was how he generally made his poorer choices. Like that time in Key West with that Margaritaville bloke and that accordion.

"You're ever so agreeable tonight," said Aziraphale. "Should I be worried?"

"Dunno what you're talking about. I'm nasty and cruel and frightening."

"You're demoning about eighty per cent less than you usually do."

"Nobody here to mess with but you. I've ruined your coat already. Scald your cocoa next."

"I'm rather sure I've behaved worse than you all day."

"Nah, I rebelled today, ha!" growled Crowley proudly. "Biggest rebellion since my boss. Even talked an angel into joining me. That's some first class demoning right there, think I can safely call it a night."

Aziraphale sighed and took a thoughtful sip. "What I'm trying to say, Crowley, is that I know you're doing your best -- well, worst -- to make this easier for me, and I appreciate the -- the effort."

"Nnnnnnndh. Well. ...'S no trouble."

"It's occurring to me," the angel continued somberly, "that I don't know whether I'll ever actually ever see Heaven again. Or Gabriel or the rest. If I do it won't be pleasant, and it won't be for long." He swallowed hard. "And...I'm trying to reconcile that -- that perhaps I don't mind. If I can't go back. I won't see the bookshop again and compared to that, Heaven is. Well. Not such a loss." Aziraphale polished off the bourbon and stretched out his glass, wordlessly petitioning a refill. Crowley obliged. "Gabriel always invoked the team, the family, the mission. And I wanted to be a part of the family, I truly did. But I was such a mismatch. Never felt at ease with them. Not since before the War."

"Which war?"

"First one."

Crowley started internally grasping for jokes, for an anecdote, for something to lift the mood again -- and found nothing equal to the task. His mouth felt dry and he began to stammer insensibly. "I mean there could, there'd be -- fuck, you can't fall, so what'd make -- I mean you _can't_ , can you?"

"Oh, I just mean I'll not be invited back is all. Falling is ancient history. Not to be indelicate in present company."

"Yeah, thought so." Crowley tried very hard not to think back to certain events just now; the unmentionable ones, the prehistory they never ever ever ever ever talked about. But despite his well-intended mental contortions, Not Poking The Painful Spot was never Crowley's strong suit.

Nobody fell anymore. Heaven realized right away that every fallen angel only swelled the ranks of the enemy; the punishment for defection changed before the War was even half over. Hell never received an official interrealm memo or anything, but they worked it out quickly enough. Once it was clear no reinforcements were coming they petitioned a cease fire.

Heaven refused and waged war for several ages more.

Time hadn't run the same back then, exactly, but the duration was measurable in the number of souls erased from the universe.

So the first fall remained the only fall among celestials. The Great Rebellion, capital letters and all. Maybe today'll get capital letters as well, thought Crowley. Perhaps this was The Ineffable Mutiny. And lucky demon Crowley here the only hellion to play a part in both Events.

He'd engineered the Fall of Man too, come to think of it. Perhaps this was a pattern worth pondering? Almost like She needed someone particularly good at --

_Naaaaaaaah._

"I dunno, 's a surprising universe angel. Time goes on and on. Rules change sometimes, they did after Joshua anyhow. You might get up there again hobnobbing one day. Hold a lecture series on ineffability once they figure out you were right."

"Somehow I doubt that." Aziraphale's voice sounded so fragile.

There was no conscious thought about it, no strategy: one moment Crowley was staring straight ahead into the fire, the next his cheek was buried in silver blonde curls, as if someone else had done it for him. They were so soft. Unreasonably soft.

A sensory panic began rising in him, burning on his skin. _Wait_ \-- _fast_ \--

He needed a moment, a diversion, anything to keep himself from falling right in and bloody _nuzzling --_

"Should we go in, d'you think?" Crowley asked, retrieving his arm abruptly. He started collecting glasses and bottles onto the tray.

Aziraphale blinked, baffled at being dislodged so fast. "I don't -- now?"

"I just need to -- I, the, um," Crowley explained. _Ruining it ruining it ruining it he's frowning fix it NOW last chance you cowardly git_ , his brain yelled helpfully. He stood to pack up the remainders of the food. His half of the blanket fell to the ground.

"Are you quite all right Crowley?" Aziraphale sat up, legs curled under him, twisting deeper into the blanket. He looked small and forlorn.

 _Fuckfuckfuck fix it you useless --_ "Back in a tick, I just gotta get the. Your. Get the ah."

Crowley whirled and carried a wholly unnecessary armload of dishes and detritus inside. Why did everything feel so precarious tonight? Every little exchange was barely balanced, perfect happy intimacy always just a prod away from collapsing into fraught misery. All he wanted to do was manage it, steer things soft and easy for a few more hours. If they won they won. If they didn't, tonight had to be -- just -- perfect. Not too much to ask.

Current status: not perfect. What happened? Crowley knew he'd happened to himself, as usual.

He dropped the entire armload in the kitchen and snapped every object back to its place before anything hit the ground. _Shit_. The touching might've been fine, the _impossibly goddamn soft_ hair episode might have even been fine, but his discomposed retreat had called attention to the whole game. That meant it was all off for now. He'd upset the board and the pieces were scattered. He looked at Aziraphale's beloved coat hanging on the barstool -- smeared with soot and cinders, dirtied by a demon -- and tried to think.

Fix it. A gift. The angel liked gifts. What magpie object could he return with? Cocoa, he'd promised cocoa. He set a pan of milk on the stove to get started. There must be a dessert in the fridge, Crowley decided, so when he opened it there was: a lovely set of miniature pots de crème in different flavors, garnished with fresh raspberries. Steps one and two.

But he needed something better -- a trinket, a ribbon, a shiny rock. One that plainly said 'oh yeah just remembered something I wanted to give you so much that I popped off like a bottle rocket to fetch it.' Surely he had an illuminated manuscript worth sharing? He kept a few stockpiled for angel appeasement purposes, there must be somesuch in the gallery. He shot across the office without thinking.

The smell of it caught him up short before the sight. Shit. Right. Melted demon bucket mess. Only --

He froze in the middle of the room.

The sound of the balcony door swinging shut barely registered. "Crowley?" called Aziraphale. He tried to answer but his larynx didn't seem to be cooperating.

Hesitant footsteps crossed the living room and kitchen, bound for the hall. "Crowley -- I do apologize, I never should have brought up such a painful topic. Are you -- can you hear me?"

Crowley's body gave a single fierce shudder and he found his voice again. "Angel! Come in here."

The footsteps wandered and backtracked as Aziraphale searched for him in the maze of concrete. "I truly -- I, I hope I haven't upset you my dear, I know there are very good reasons we don't discuss it, and it was cruel of me to casually --"

The angel found the office at last, from the other side. They looked at each other through the doorway, then Crowley pointed bluntly at the empty floor between them.

"'Sgone."

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. Crowley could see his mind jumping tracks. "Where -- what? It was here two hours ago."

"And now it's gone. Not a trace. Did you?"

"No, I wouldn't just vanish it without containment measures. Too risky." Aziraphale carefully crossed the threshold where _they had both_ _seen_ the reeking sulfrous pile. Crowley surveyed the office: the old ansaphone blinked its little red light. The open tartan thermos lurked on the desk next to smithing tongs and gloves. At least it was clear he'd taken precautions.

"Who could have done this?" asked Aziraphale warily. He paced the room, hunting for any hint of contamination.

"Not demons," said Crowley. "Wouldn't get near it."

"Angels could but I can't imagine they would. How did you -- what was the actual, er, mechanism?"

Crowley flopped into his throne sideways and pouted, hoping it came off as pensive. He didn't exactly want to go into detail. "Does it matter?"

"It might."

"He -- I -- doused him."

"Not using the tongs I hope?!"

"No, just, it...fell. On him."

"From where?"

Crowley slumped farther down and hid his eyes with one hand, as if that would render him invisible. _"Bucketonthedoor."_

Aziraphale gawked. "A bucket over the door? Are we twelve?"

"It was highly effective! And 's got nothing to do with the fact the evidence is inexplicably missing. Where'd it _go?"_

Aziraphale rolled up his shirtsleeves and retrieved the thermos with painstaking care fit for a grenade. "I wonder if this has anything to do with Adam's choice. As you said, he didn't just repair it, he undid it. Some of it."

Crowley winced. "Wish he undid the smell."

"Quite. I'll just go dispose of these," said Aziraphale mildly, heading down the hall.

Crowley scrambled up out of his chair, wondering how to nonchalantly explain that he had parted with his Bentley already today and he would _not_ lose the thermos too.

"Nnt, err, hhet, ngm --" was all he could manage.

"What was that?" asked Aziraphale, looking back. Crowley couldn't bring himself to walk across the formerly sanctified concrete, but he squirmed and took a couple lunges as if to jump it. Aziraphale gave him an odd look, head cocked, and returned. "Did you say something, Crowley?"

"Said don't," he blurted, backing away.

"Don't what? Take care of this?" With the thermos in hand the angel stayed several paces away.

"Please. No. I ehm." Crowley scuffed his foot and wished his senses weren't so overwhelmed by the horrific smell. That smell. "Oh _shite,"_ he yelped, and sprinted back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale was so confounded he began chuckling to himself where he stood.

"Scalded your cocoa angel, as promised, terribly demonic," shouted Crowley from the stove.

And the tension between them crumpled. The angel came to the kitchen and stood smiling fondly in the farthest corner. Crowley was in a frenzy at the sink trying to save the pan, but he felt sure of his footing again. It would be all right. They were all right.

"You're an absolute menace, Crowley," Aziraphale laughed. "A pitiless fiend from the pit. And I see you've laid out dessert as well."

"Yup, an' here you thought I was through tempting for the night. Evil never sleeps."

"Let's not start on how much you sleep."

"Aaaah, feck it," Crowley said to the crusted pan, restoring it with a snap instead. He hung it over the island and dried his hands with a dishtowel. "The thing is, angel -- thing is. Cocoa's off. These berry thingums are begging to be paired with a beverage to remember. Any requests?"

"What's on the list?"

"Our Side happens to be well stocked in champagne, brandy, whisky with or without an E, sherry, port --"

Aziraphale smiled wider, looking quite recovered and relieved to be so. "Brandy sounds divine. Do you have cognac by chance?"

"No divine drinks here, nor infernal. Terrestrial cognac only." Crowley skirted the kitchen island to visit the pantry and Aziraphale obligingly circled the far side, still clutching the thermos white-knuckled. "So, angel, here's the other thing. I don't mind talking about the War, nor falling, not now. And you didn't offend me. Glad you said how you felt in fact. Just didn't know what to say for a minute and, y'know. 'S me. I change the subject with my feet sometimes."

It had all seemed impossible to say a few minutes before, but now the words came out easy as sin. He found the L'Esprit de Courvoisier high on a shelf and returned to the island.

"And here's the _other_ other thing angel: I've got used to having that thermos at hand and I don't mean to give it up now. Waste of good kitchenware, they don't make it like that anymore. Right?"

Aziraphale seemed to understand, perhaps even looked a bit misty over it as he nodded. "Right."

"Might be wise to arrange a refill anyway, considering our circumstances."

Which was risky to mention but it was true. The angel's forehead crease returned, but Crowley wasn't worried. He waited for the clouds to clear and allowed it might take a little time.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale took the thermos to the sink and pushed his rolled sleeves up above his elbows. He summoned a new bottle brush, soap, and some caustic cleaning chemicals and got to work.

Crowley backed away, as far across the kitchen as he could go, and watched in amazement. Of course he knew Aziraphale preferred to do many tasks the human way -- and of course neither of them would take chances using miracles on holy water -- but that did not prepare the demon for the fascinating domestic spectacle of the angel _washing up_. The serious focused look, the quick hands. Bare wrists. Crowley was captivated.

During his third thorough lather and rinse Aziraphale finally spoke. "If this is to be the vessel I'd rather leave it to air dry a few days at least, and test the seams for slow leaks over several more. It is a bit of an antique by now as far as these things go. One can't be too careful."

 _One can,_ thought Crowley, _but you won't. Not this time._ "Trust your judgment angel. Whatever you think."

"I'll bring --" Aziraphale stopped abruptly and looked straight ahead, hands stilled in the water. "No, I won't bring anything back over from mine, I don't.....right. There's --" he sniffed oddly and twitched his mouth to one side, blinking fast. "I'll need to go somewhere else to bless it. Wouldn't do it within a mile of you."

Crowley was certain he had just witnessed a powerful act of emotional suppression. Martial law declared, quarantine procedures implemented -- just there, behind the eyes.

"Long as you don't toss it if you find a defect," said Crowley. "I'll want it for something else then. Picnics."

Aziraphale glanced up and met his gaze for a scant moment, then returned to work.

The demon drew a step or two closer with each rinse as the danger dimmed. He poured the cognac and set out cutlery on the dessert tray, openly staring the whole time at the angel's hands under the faucet. When the job was done, he was wordlessly ready at his side with the towel. Aziraphale dried his forearms and fingers brusquely. Crowley felt a little faint.

It was just so human, being in the kitchen together. Cleaning up. He could pretend they had nothing else on tonight, nowhere to go in the morning. Pretend they were back from some normal day at work doing insignificant jobs. No souls in the balance. No broadcasts from Hell interrupting Netflix. No immortal armies massing to tear them apart. No pressure to have a perfect last night on earth. No shortcuts, no power, no eternity. Just bodies and minds, stories and time; just tasks and hands. Those beautiful strong familiar fluttering hands.

Aziraphale wiped down the counter with the thoughtless confidence of habit. Crowley stood by with the tulip glasses and slipped one to him smoothly the moment he was ready.

"Cheers," he said, and they toasted and sipped with nearly six thousand years' practice.

"Thank you dearest," said Aziraphale. And then, like it was nothing, like it happened every day, he kissed Crowley on the cheek as he swept by.

Crowley's higher functions ceased utterly for several minutes.

Aziraphale alighted near the dessert tray and tested the chocolate espresso pot de crème. He moaned under his breath and licked the spoon clean with an expression of rapture. "This is simply superb. However did you know I'd had a craving for these lately?" He popped a raspberry into his mouth, set down the cognac, and took the tray away into the living room.

Crowley remained frozen exactly where It Had Happened, affixed by one hip to the counter with his mouth hanging open.

"You neglected to tell me about that new tattoo of yours," Aziraphale continued as he laid out the food on a coffee table in the living room. "We got waylaid talking about your seafaring years, and then on to Egypt and Morocco and then old Londinium. Quite the tour. I forgot we skipped over it. Might have been the wine, of course, but in any case you did promise to tell me. Do you mind if I put on another record?" Without waiting for an answer, the angel began perusing the vinyl. The demon still showed no more sign of life than a waxwork, aside from the crimson flush on his face.

"I've never heard of any of these, goodness. Are they in any sort of order? Did you put the Édith Piaf cover -- oh, here it is, never mind. Lovely girl. I saw her at the Paris Olympia twice. Were you with me that first time? Or was it Dalida we attended together?" No answer was forthcoming, but Aziraphale was unfazed. He hummed a little and made a small cry of delight as he happened on an album of Brahms piano music. "Ah! This is one of my favorites, I didn't know you owned it."

Crowley managed to close his mouth halfway and issue a small pained "hnnnf," which was a step.

He knew the Brahms. It was music to Pine To. Perfect for groaning in longing melancholy on the floor. Whichever synapse woke up first reminded him [the Intermezzo in A](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Wo4IPNMzWQ) would fuck him right up, and _of_ _course_ that'd be the first tune washing over him now because the angel had started on side B.

"I've always been a mite jealous that you got to hear Clara when you were on the continent, I so wish I could have heard her play this repertoire. Do you mind if I soften up the sofa just a touch? It looks ever so sleek but it's like sitting on a cinderblock." The angel settled in with dessert and drink looking infuriatingly innocent, as if he hadn't just given his best friend a swift lobotomy.

Crowley was rebooting into a thick fog of confusion. It was a long time before anything more than a fragment of a thought emerged from the mist: _Kiss. Me. Did. What. He_

His knee was frozen up tight, nearly aching. He banged it hard into the cupboard in hopes some _actual_ pain might unlock his corporation. "Mind how you go, dear!" Aziraphale sang out from across the room, the absolute bastard. The shock and the noise seemed to help; at least now Crowley could flex his hands and shake his head and take a drink, like a fully grown demonic entity in control of itself. His jaw still felt loose and strange, as if his teeth were magnetically opposed to meeting.

Here they came again, actual thoughts with words. Words and arguments. What -- why had that happened? _You know what-why._ Was it even his turn? _Game's off, board's on the floor, you're playing for real now._ Then what does he mean by it? _You know what it means and he knows you know._ But with no declaration, no big reveal, how to be sure -- _it's been six thousand years. Leave the drama to the humans. He did what he wanted to._

What the heavenly fuck to do now? _Bugger if I know._

If he didn't move soon the music would make him cry, there had been a fight and a fire and a bookshop and a ghost and a Bentley and a flaming sword today after all, and it was rather a lot.

So with a herculean effort Crowley wrenched himself free of the counter and embarked on a slow saunter to the other end of the flat. That'd buy him awhile. The architecture was all ominous edges and echoes so the piano followed him down through the office, the atrium, the labyrinthian hallways, chords turning unearthly as they collided with each other and doubled back. Snakeskin boots and a pounding heart were the only other sound.

When he reached the far end Crowley stared into his glass, tried to summon another legible thought, couldn't. He turned back. He could pretend to think. Pretend to know what to do, and do that. Then at least he'd be doing something.

The music grew clearer and warmer with every step.

Crowley found the angel where he'd left him, audibly enjoying the ramekin of lemon lavender cream. Without a word he came to the couch and laid down with his head in Aziraphale's lap.

The angel took his cognac glass from him so he could curl up more comfortably, then rested a hand in his fiery hair. "Shoes on the furniture, really, Crowley."

"Not shoes," Crowley grumbled. He closed his eyes and wondered whether this feeling was peace or just pretending to be. And whether the difference mattered at all. _Naaaaaah.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Clara Schumann was one of the most renowned pianists of Brahms' day, and she often premiered his works. He was reportedly in unrequited love with her most of his life. Their friendship was close nonetheless.
> 
> Thanks so much! If you like it subscribe for the rest!
> 
> This is continued from the end of 'Recounting the Deeds of the Day' (the bus ride) but both can stand alone as well. https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932
> 
> I'm brand new at this and excited to meet y'all. I'm @charlottemadison42 on my brand new tumblr and idek how that thing works yet. Starting a new longer AU at https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148/
> 
> Thanks AO3, you are wonderful!


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